


To Seduce a Writer

by Nwar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24538390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nwar/pseuds/Nwar
Summary: Aziraphale spots a tumblr post made by one Mister Neil Gaiman in a literary magazine. What lovely advices! This post: https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/18932682858/as-requested-by-too-many-people-making-the-last
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Neil Gaiman, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. The Writer

**Author's Note:**

> I mean... yeah, why not.

Aziraphale, as a matter of course-- being an owner of a bookshop--, was dedicated to informing himself on news and goings-on of the writing community. He had a subscription to _Bookmarks Magazine_ , _World Literature Today_ , and even the ubiquitous _Reader’s Digest_.   
It was a fine fall morning, the air outside encroaching through the windows with the perfect amount of chill and cinnamon scent, when he saw the advertisement for Crowley’s book.   
He knew right away that Crowley had written it. There was no other explanation for the full page glossy depiction of a classic Bentley careening away from what appeared to be an exploding papal building, layered with a red fog cloud around the edge of the page filled with random symbols from various cultures and religions. Though there was no synopsis, crowded between the action-thriller type design were reviews-- “A.J. Crawly has done it again! Action packed and on the knife-edge of religious conspiracy!”, “A revelation! Crawly manages to make the vatican a sexy labyrinth of secrets and ancient mystery!”, “Ten out of five stars! Made me want to pick up a bible just to double check some of this!”.   
Aziraphale sighed and set down the magazine, the opposite page rolled back to display the full page advert in all of its messy, pandering, pretend-precocious glory. He left it on the table to go and get a fresh, hot cup of tea.   
A few weeks later, there was another one, this time in a publication he had formerly respected as an unbiased reviewer of new literature. It was a full page review, giving “A.J. Crawly”’s new novel 4 out of 5 stars. “ _Much Ado About Nunning_ is the latest conspiracy thriller from Crawly, moving his true-aiming magnifying glass to the practice of demonic orders of nuns. His main character, Daemon Fell, is on vacation in England when he stumbles upon a tunnel from his hotel to the dungeon of a secret sect--” Aziraphale couldn’t read anymore. He wouldn’t throw it in the trash, but he closed the review magazine without any gentleness and didn’t open it until the very late afternoon as punishment.   
The final straw was a sparkling review in _Bookstore Weekly_ for a new “Crawly” novel; “In his latest incendiary novel, _Who is This God Person Anyway?_ , Crawly explores a history of human religious practices stretching all the way back to Mesopotamia with vivid detail. The startling twist-- and skip here if you don’t want to be spoiled, readers-- is that it is revealed all of this information, presented in a thrilling and easy-to-read format, is all coming from the research of the main character of his previous novels, Daemon Fell.” Aziraphale was quite ready to empty his cup of tea on the magazine at this point, though of course he restrained himself. Instead, he was about to close it up and bury it amongst the seldom-perused agricultural section of his bookshop when he spotted a strange feature on the opposite page.   
It was a sort of celebrity spotting clip-- “Writer Neil Gaiman of _American Gods_ and _Sandman_ fame uses the teenage media site ‘Tumblr’ to offer some romance advice.” Underneath was a picture from the internet, reprinted in the magazine. The entire spotlight on this would fit under Aziraphale’s palm, and he brought it closer to the little glasses perched on his nose to read it.   
A curious soul had written in anonymously to Mister Gaiman, asking for advice on “how to seduce a writer”, and the author had graciously answered.   
“I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties,” Gaiman wrote, “If you sent them a cheerful note saying ‘YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.’”  
Aziraphale glanced between Gaiman’s advice, and the review on the opposite page, which mentioned Crawly’s conspicuous lack of author’s photograph in passing. He looked back at the picture from the internet.   
Well, no time like the present-- time to get out his stationery wardrobe.


	2. The Letter

Aziraphale arranged his stationery happily. He had been quite upset when correspondence had fallen out of fashion (he had joyfully been trading notes with several notable writers of the time, gleefully awaiting their responses between each of the 16 mail rounds that London had each day). He had his different papers laid out-- black borders for mourning, the holiday tinted (green for Saint Patrick’s day correspondence, red for the winter holidays, and a cheeky pink and seafoam marble that he had bought on a whim to break in case of emergency springtime pen-pals), and the heavyweight stock that he’d had custom printed with his name and business address.   
He chose his letterhead paper-- a cheerful note, the instructions had said, but something told him that any pastel item delivered to the Crowley residence would incinerate upon being dropped through the letterbox. Now for the writing itself-- he had his inkwell and quill already set up at his reading desk, but that might imbue too much meaning; he would use his much more casual, modern (bought: 1889) fountain pen. Black ink; he wasn’t trying to make himself out to be some kind of harlot in dark blue.   
He wrote precisely what the author had instructed:   
_Crowley,  
YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.   
Aziraphale_  
Aziraphale looked at the note. It looked so simple. He had centered the text halfway down the unlined paper to make it seem less aborted, but it still felt like a very small message in a wide space of nothing.   
Perhaps now wasn’t the time-- they had been friends, or rather “friends”, for centuries, millenia! Maybe Crowley would even take offense to such a glib message after all the years of politely declining veiled questions to dinner, the theatre, the turkish baths.   
Oh.   
Oh no.   
Aziraphale stared down at the paper, gripped with a sudden horror. What if-- the message wasn’t desired at all? What if Crowley had truly meant innocence when he had asked for Aziraphale’s company. Maybe he did genuinely want to enjoy a steam room platonically with a life-long friend.   
As if some holy force had taken over his body, Aziraphale moved with unusual quickness as he folded the note in thirds, crammed it into an envelope that he had already prepared with Crowley’s name in elegant penmanship on the outside. He felt like his body was moving without his conscious effort; he didn’t even savor the setting of the wax seal like he usually would.   
It was the snap of his own fingers that miracled the note to Crowley’s front door that broke him from his reverie.   
“Oh, heavens above,” Aziraphale gasped. The note he’d written, the note asking to _seduce Crowley_ , was now in _Crowley’s possession_. Taken, gone, sent, already out of his hands.   
The _NOTE_ he had sent inviting _CROWLEY_ to a _SEDUCTION_ was now delivered.   
Aziraphale paced back and forth on his rugs, hands kneading the outside of his mug as he drank cup after cup of tea until he had to miracle the caffeine out of his corporeal form for fear of overdosing. He was getting dizzy from spinning and turning back and forth in the bookstore.   
In a darker and more minimalistically decorated flat across London, a pale, long-fingered hand picked up a letter that had just appeared on his front mat which bore his name across the front in Aziraphale’s lavish hand.


	3. The Dress Code

Crowley had received many invitations to seductions. It was on the dress code for every holiday party down in hell. As he slid through his closet of different jackets on Friday afternoon, however, he wondered what had prompted this one.   
He had been pleasantly surprised by the note from Aziraphale. Since the invention of the telephone, they hadn’t exchanged very many letters, and even then there had only been a few. A notable one had included a very specific coded message regarding a detective operating in their city that Crowley ought to stop sticking his nose into if he knew what was best for him (according to Aziraphale). He hadn’t bothered to get the gilded letter-opener from his desk, choosing instead to use his fingernail to watch Aziraphale’s expensive stationery wrinkle and rip.   
As a demon, Crowley enjoyed a bit of meaningless destruction, but as a person, he particularly enjoyed seeing something that Aziraphale had painstakingly crafted into a physical incarnation of his perfectionism mess under his fingers.   
The letterstock was nice. Before unfolding it, Crowley lifted it to his nose. It smelled of the gentle antiquity in the angel’s bookshop, like crisp and delicate pages holding words pressed into submission many years previous. But the paper he unfolded was thick and bore “Mister Fell”’s letterhead, gilded, the flamboyant little touches of the angel’s aesthetic.   
Crowley sometimes wondered what life would be like if absolutely everything in the world were to Aziraphale’s precise liking. The weather would always be a soft gray sky, maybe to loudly rain later and tap on the windows, cool enough to feel comfortable in a three piece vintage suit. There would be gentle piano playing from every stereo, and the scent of fresh baked scones would float on the air. And when Crowley thought about this world-- late at night, when he was bored of being a thing on earth, and just wanted to escape to sleep-- he hoped that he would be in it. That his skinny figure would stick out of the plush landscape of Aziraphale’s daydream, but nestle right in like a sharp sculpture in a pillow. He imagined, just as he tipped over the edge into thoughtlessness, that Aziraphale wanted his dark edges just as much as he enjoyed his own soft coziness.   
Crowley skipped entirely over the step of surprise or even curiosity at the note’s contents. His brain couldn’t process it. He couldn’t conjure the corporation of Aziraphale and the word seduction into his mind at the same time. So he had just skipped to the dress code and ignored the rest.   
Which, he was realizing as the clock ticked down on Friday night, was quite vague. He wasn’t sure how he would like to be seduced, and he wasted quite a few miracles trying to decide.   
In the mirror appeared his typical tight pants and bohemian necklace, dark sunglasses with the cool aviatrix style sides.   
A finger snap, and his reflection showed a suit cut finer than any tailor in France could aspire to, dark satin weaving intricate designs through the matte fabric of the tie, tucked precisely into the single button over his midsection. He grunted.   
Now the mirror showed a long, glittering black evening gown, slit cut higher than was really tasteful to expose one thin, artfully stilettoed leg. A growl as Crowley tossed the bothersome long curls over his shoulder, and another snap.   
He settled, grudgingly, on something he didn’t wear very often: white. His trousers were a pressed charcoal gray, but his shirt was crisp white, unbuttoned two down. On an impulse he didn’t really understand, he cuffed the sleeves, folding them back the way a young designer in Paris had taught him some years ago so that the flare of the cuff accentuated his forearms.   
He walked out to the Bentley, and the woman who passed him in the hallway would later furtively squeal into her cell phone to her girlfriend that she had seen an Armani model.  
In a much, much shorter amount of time than it ought to have taken, Crowley arrived at the door of the bookstore. It appeared dark inside, but that just meant that Aziraphale was in the back room rather than the front library. He lifted his fist to knock, and then, hesitating, lowered his hand to remove his sunglasses and slide them into his pocket.   
He took a deep breath, tapped on the window, and prepared to be seduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to die by Davina's hand, that is all


End file.
